


MI Sex

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man in the Secret Service naturally keeps a lot of things hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt (no 103)](http://mystradefanfest.livejournal.com/4441.html) at the Mystrade Fanworks Festival and betaed by the amazing [Blooms84](http://blooms84.livejournal.com/). No spoilers for Series 2 and not compatible with it.

The first time he met Mycroft Holmes, Lestrade had just nipped outside the Royal London Hospital, because he was getting desperate for a smoke. Puffing away rapidly, still worrying about Sherlock, he saw a tall, dark-haired man in a penguin suit approach him.

"Are you Joe Collier?" the man asked a little uncertainly. "The nurses said you'd come out here."

"Yeah, that's me," Lestrade replied. The man looked at him dubiously again. Lestrade worried if it was the smoking that was putting him off. Or his filthy clothes, or the frankly appalling sight of Lestrade with his hair dyed carroty-orange.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother," the man said. "I was at the opera, when they told me he'd had an accident. What happened?"

"We were doing a job replacing pipes over at Coburg Square. Trench collapsed, he got buried in the rubble. I got him out, but he'd bust some ribs and they were worried about internal injuries. They're doing tests on him, now. Dunno what exactly."

He knew it sounded implausible, but it was less implausible than the real truth. That they'd been just about to get their hands on John Clay and his associates, and foil their attempts to tunnel into a bank when some half-arsed gang member had managed to bring the whole tunnel down around their ears. Complete bloody disaster. He stubbed out his cigarette.

"Better get back inside," he added. "They didn't say how long they were going to be. I want to check he's OK before I bugger off." He paused. "He didn't say he had a brother." Sherlock had worked with him for more than a year and Lestrade had always presumed he'd been raised by a pack of wolves. Or possibly bloodhounds.

"I'm a civil servant," Mycroft Holmes – what kind of a name was Mycroft? – replied. "I've been on secondment in the United States for a few years."

When they got back inside there was still no word about Sherlock. "Afraid you're gonna miss all your opera," Lestrade said, and settled back in the least uncomfortable of the plastic chairs. "I can get us some coffee if you like." Mycroft was staring rather hard at him, he realised, slightly embarrassed.

"Shouldn't you be getting seen to?" Mycroft enquired. "You...you have blood on your shirt."

"Probably Sherlock's. I dug him out, it was all pretty messy. I'll get meself cleaned up and seen to later."

"But-"

"There's a ten-mile queue down in A & E. I'll be sat there till midnight and they'll discharge Sherlock when me back's turned."

"You're very concerned for your...colleague."

"He's the weirdest bloke I've ever worked with, but we're mates," Lestrade said. "We look out for one another."

"Hold out your hands," Mycroft said, coming to stand in front of him, and there was a tone of command in his voice that somehow had Lestrade doing what he was told. Mycroft inspected them carefully, and Lestrade tried to resist the urge to say: _Any other bits of my body you'd like to examine?_ He'd always had a weakness for dressed-up posh blokes.

"Some of the cuts are quite deep," Mycroft announced. "I'll go and find someone to take a look at you." He disappeared, and to Lestrade's astonishment, returned quarter of an hour later with a nurse. She promptly took Lestrade off to a treatment room, as Mycroft sat back down and started fiddling with his phone. By the time Lestrade got back, cleaned and bandaged, Mycroft had installed himself comfortably in one corner of the waiting room and was sedately drinking coffee from an actual cup and saucer.

"I'll have someone bring up some sandwiches soon," Mycroft announced. "They had to operate on Sherlock, we'll be here for hours yet. And you need to keep your strength up. That is, if you want to stay here, _DI Lestrade_."

Lestrade wondered for a moment if he should try bluffing and then saw Mycroft's shrewd grey eyes on him and knew it was pointless.

"How did you know?" he said.

"I was appallingly slow, rather distracted I'm afraid. But your hands are not those of a manual labourer and though you're strongly-built, it's also not a labourer's physique. Your skin tone would be genetically unusual to find combined with red hair, and the intensity of your eye colour suggests coloured contact lens. Then I remembered that when I asked your name, your hand automatically went towards your pocket. You're used to producing ID of some kind. There are other indications as well, but that was already enough to suggest to me that you were a police officer temporarily working undercover. When you were leaving to be patched up, I took a photo of you – a black and white photo, so as to avoid confusion – and sent it to a colleague who had access to police records. It was simple enough to trace you."

"OK," said Lestrade. "Yes, I'm Greg Lestrade. So it’s now time to tell me who you really are."

"As I said-"

"Yeah, I'm happy with you being Sherlock's brother. From the deductions alone, you have to be. But you're not a detective yourself. Sherlock would have told me if you were, and besides, you haven't nicked my warrant card. And ordinary civil servants don't have access to police databases, or go off to work in the US for years. You're Intelligence of some kind, aren't you?"

Mycroft nodded.

"OK, fair enough, I won't spread it around. But do you want to hear about the operation tonight, so you're up to speed on that? It all started with a man called Jabez Wilson and an advert he saw about genetic testing of redheads..."

***

"Mycroft wasn't _seconded_ to the US," Sherlock told him, when Lestrade asked. "He was exiled. The intelligence community is riven with factions. Someone who bore a grudge against Mycroft sent him off to the Cousins, the CIA. The man who organised that is now gone, so Mycroft's returned. Which presumably means he's going to start poking his nose into my business."

What that involved, Lestrade gathered over the next few months, was Mycroft turning up periodically to help out, normally in the aftermath of cases, when Sherlock had swept off triumphantly, leaving a mess of unresolved problems in his wake. Or when Sherlock had got himself into hot water and a bit of diplomacy was called for.

Like the awful day at the Horse of Lords when Sherlock decided the best way to return the stolen Mazarin diamond was to place it surreptitiously in Lord Cantlemere's pocket and then demand that Lestrade search him. There were practical jokes and there were bloody embarrassing scenes with senior government ministers, and why the fuck Sherlock couldn't tell the difference, Lestrade could not figure out. But Mycroft had materialised at a crucial moment – just passing, so he claimed – and smoothed everything over.

"I owe you a drink," Lestrade said, when he and Mycroft were finally walking away.

"That's very kind, but I-" Mycroft began.

"A soft drink if you're still on duty. But a chance for us both to sit down and unwind, because you look a bit frazzled as well. I don't want Lord Cantlemere and Sherlock giving you ulcers."

"It's bruxism, not ulcers," Mycroft said, once there were sitting on the terrace with a whisky each. "Teeth-grinding. Associated with stress, which is obviously associated with Sherlock. He...I wish he had someone to look after him."

"I can't see anyone sticking with him," Lestrade said. "Though if I ever come across a nice calm bloke who's trained in unarmed combat and bored with tiger-wrestling, I might suggest it." He stopped, because Mycroft was looking at him curiously. Oh shit, had he said too much?

"Did Sherlock tell you he was gay?" Mycroft asked, quietly.

"No, but...he's wary towards any woman who might think he's boyfriend material; he gets on better with women he's sure aren't attracted to him. I recognise the pattern." No need to explain why; he suspected Mycroft knew about his own past already. Though he'd been careful not to eye Mycroft up too obviously.

"He needs stability," Mycroft said.

"Maybe," Lestrade said, "but he doesn't want it. He'll calm down eventually. Are there any bits of your week that you're allowed to tell me about?"

***

It was an odd friendship to develop, but perhaps an inevitable one: Lestrade and Mycroft both needed someone discreet to vent to. And the object they needed to vent about was often the same one. Sherlock's reputation as a detective was still developing, but so were some other worrying habits.

"I wanted to ask you a favour," Mycroft said, about a year after they'd met. They were in a cafe, and Lestrade was gulping down hot, sweet tea. He wasn't actually in shock, but Sherlock had spent twenty minutes haranguing him before Mycroft had turned up, and it was either hot tea and a bun or a ciggie to unwind.  At least these regular meetings with Mycroft were encouraging him to cut down on his smoking a bit; it was easy to tell that Mycroft didn't like the lingering smell.

"Don't worry," Lestrade said. "I won't arrest Sherlock. I know he's...having problems at the moment."

"You mean his drug consumption is getting worse," Mycroft replied tartly. "I'm surprised you associate with him at all."

"He's on the books as an informer," Lestrade replied. "I get tip-offs from a lot of junkies, if not usually ones like him. In return, I don't arrest them."

"Maybe you should do," Mycroft said. He was eating a small piece of lemon cheesecake extremely slowly and carefully, as if it was a struggle not to wolf it down.

"What are you saying?"

"Sherlock needs a shock to his system. Something to make him realise the danger he's running into."

"Arresting him won't stop him using," Lestrade said. "Prison won't stop that. Cutting off his funds won't stop that – you've done that already, haven't you?"

Mycroft nodded and then said: "I want you to stop using him as a consultant. That might do the trick."

"Hell of a loss to the Met if I do. You know what our clear-up rate would be without him."

"He's on a downward spiral."

"I know!" Lestrade almost shouted. "But until he wants to do something about that, there is _nothing_ we can do. You'll just make things worse if you try."

" _Please_ ," said Mycroft. "Being a detective is the one thing other than the drugs that he cares about. Not me, or Mummy or our friends. If you say he can't work for you anymore..."

The look of misery on Mycroft's face was almost unbearable. He had to believe he was trying everything he could, didn't he, thought Lestrade. And being a copper got you used to doing things that you knew were unlikely to work.

"It's going to come across as pretty hypocritical," he said. "Sherlock'll just point out I'm a nicotine addict meself. Still, I could claim I'm going to get kicked out of the force if I keep on using a junkie as an advisor. Might possibly get through."

"Thank you," said Mycroft. "I can't say how much I'm in your debt."

***

Mycroft was right, after all, to Lestrade's surprise. Seven unpleasant weeks after Lestrade had stopped accepting Sherlock's help – a period which included three unsolved murders and hundreds of abusive text messages – Mycroft phoned to say that Sherlock had agreed to enter an addiction treatment programme.

"It's been a wakeup call to him," Mycroft said. Lestrade carefully didn't say how many of those he'd had from Sherlock in the last forty-something days; he'd ended up leaving his phone off the hook overnight when the furious calls got to every hour on the hour.

He went up to Southgate on the day that Sherlock was admitted to the private hospital there. Not to get involved, he hoped, but just in case. Because if Sherlock somehow got himself arrested, someone to liaise with the local bobbies would come in handy.

He'd been sitting in the cafe near the hospital for an hour and a half when Mycroft arrived. Lestrade had answered all his e-mails, including the ones that had been lurking since Christmas, and was just starting to wonder if he should go along to the hospital and check what was happening.

"You OK?" he asked, when Mycroft came in. He clearly wasn't, but Mycroft always wanted to save face.

"No," Mycroft replied, sitting down. He had the look of a man who would scream if he knew how to. Lestrade hastily went and got a fresh pot of tea for him and a plateful of scones. Because there was a time for diets and a time for comfort food, and Mycroft looked like he needed a lot of comfort. He sat and waited in silence as Mycroft ate slowly and systematically through the scones. He'd hear what happened eventually.

"We got to the hospital, and parked," Mycroft said at last. "And then...Sherlock said he wasn't going to do it. He was...scared."

Mycroft had been too, Lestrade could tell. He wished he'd been there, to help him, but the situation had been complicated enough as it was.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You'd told me beforehand that he might not go through with it. And that...that it wouldn't do any good to try and pressure him." Mycroft's chin was going up, in that defensive way he had. "So I said it was his decision."

_Well done_ , Lestrade thought. That was Mycroft's weakness, of course, the urge to fix things whether people wanted them fixed or not.

"Sherlock said he needed to think," Mycroft went on, in a very tightly controlled voice, "so he went for a walk, and I sat in the car for an hour or so. Then he came back and asked if I could make you change your decision about calling him in on cases. I said that the way he'd treated you, any reasonable man would have nothing to do with you ever again."

"So what did he say to that?" Lestrade couldn't help smiling. Maybe Sherlock still knew him better than Mycroft.

"That you were desperate and unreasonable. That you were the only one of the Yarders bright enough to know when you were out of your depth, and conscientious enough to put up with him." Mycroft had a hint of a smile now. "But I also told him he'd be no use to you if the drugs clouded his mind. Asked him if he'd seen the recent research on cocaine and memory loss."

"And?"

"He said he'd try the programme," Mycroft said, staring miserably out of the window, towards the hospital. "But...I'm not sure whether he'll stick to it. I suspect he'll walk out within a week."

It was times like this you saw how much Mycroft cared about his brother, loved him. Well, if you weren't Sherlock and oblivious to the fact. _The poor sod_ , thought Lestrade, reaching out his hand to cover Mycroft's on the table, wishing he knew the right thing to say.

"It's a start," he said. "If this doesn't work out, we'll think of something else."

Mycroft was looking round at him now in shock, down at Lestrade's hand, then up at his face. _Oh shit_ , thought Lestrade, _I shouldn't have said "we", should I?_ But he didn't move his hand, just kept it wrapped round Mycroft's long, cold fingers and gazed into his unhappy grey eyes. And Mycroft didn't pull away, didn't protest.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said at last, because Mycroft was still just sitting there looking stunned. "Not for falling for you, obviously, but now's probably not the right time to tell you. Maybe if we talk about this later?"

"No," said Mycroft, and now his hand did pull away – reluctantly? – from Lestrade, to bury itself in a pocket. "I...it can't work, Gregory. I am touched by your interest, but...no." He stood up. "I need to get back to the office." He handed a five-pound note to Lestrade. "For the scones," he said, and then he was gone.

He hadn't said _I'm straight_ or _I don't fancy you_ , thought Lestrade. Or even _I've already got someone_. But it didn't matter: the answer was still no, and he had to accept that. Put his feelings for Mycroft back in the deep freeze and hope that he hadn't accidentally wrecked their friendship.

***

Three weeks of silence later Lestrade decided it was time to phone Mycroft, and he dug out the latest contact number.

"I wanted to check how Sherlock was," he said. "God, the hospital haven't taken away his mobile, have they? I don't know he'd survive withdrawal of _that_."

"If you're not providing him with cases, he may not have felt the need to call you," Mycroft replied. "Whereas I now know the guilty secrets of every member of the hospital staff and a large number of exotic swearwords. But he has stayed there, which is something." He paused and then added. "I had been meaning to phone...I was, I was going to ask you for a favour, a large favour."

"Fine. What is it?"

"Sherlock's finishing his programme a week on Saturday and I have to be in Japan at the time. Do you think you could possibly collect him? The hospital says it's always best to have friends on hand when a person leaves, eases the transition."

"Of course," Lestrade said. "Anything I can do to help."

***

"I gather Mycroft decided he couldn't face the family reunion," Sherlock said, as Lestrade put his suitcases in the car. "And has fled to Japan to avoid one."

"If I was your brother, I'd probably move to Alpha Centauri," Lestrade retorted. "Oh, never mind. It's a star, just so you know." Sherlock was looking vaguely healthy, he thought, a hint of colour in the pale skin, not quite as restless as usual. "How do you feel?"

"Bored," Sherlock announced. "A month of addicts and petty criminals and the patients were a dubious lot as well. I need scope. I need _murders_." He pronounced the word with relish.

"You need murdering," Lestrade retorted mildly. "Good job Mycroft's not here." And then he smiled. "And you know why? Because you'd have to admit he was right. You needed to get yourself sorted out."

He texted Mycroft that evening: _He's clean and he's solved two tricky cases already. I'll keep an eye on him till you're back. GL_.

Mycroft's response was immediate, even though it must have been the middle of the night in Okinawa. _Thank you, Greg. I am immensely grateful. Mycroft._

***

So there they were, Lestrade thought, friends again and gradually the pattern of meetings for little chats picked up again. Mycroft was even busier, though, always disappearing off at unexpected moments. Good job that Sherlock had stayed off the drugs. Lestrade was still mentally counting off the weeks and months that Sherlock stayed clean, but somehow it had become years. It had been, what, nearly three years since the hospital? And since telling Mycroft that he fancied him.

It had been stupid, he realised that now. Sherlock didn't want people getting too near him and Mycroft was probably the same. There was a detachment at the heart of both of them. Maybe if you were that clever, you could never get close to anyone; you'd always think of them as just an irrational assembly of molecules. But the Holmeses needed friends, at least, Lestrade decided. He might just be a stupid middle-aged plod, but that didn't stop him wanting to keep an eye out for Sherlock, the silly sod. And as for Mycroft...

He couldn't help what he still felt about Mycroft, but he kept a lid on it as best he could. He didn't want to embarrass either of them, pining after an unavailable man. And it wasn't as if he didn't have other things to distract him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of Mycroft's secrets aren't as well hidden as he'd like

"Am I allowed to say how much I hate Christmas?" Lestrade asked, as they sat in Mycroft's club at lunchtime.

"If you were in the Diogenes, you would not be allowed to say anything," Mycroft replied, "although certain eloquent hand gestures are occasionally allowed. Since this is the Tankerville Club, you can say what you like as long as you add that it's all the fault of the Labour Government."

"Why the...blazes have you brought me here?"

"The puddings," Mycroft replied. "They do a treacle tart that will restore your faith in humanity. With proper custard, of course."

If Mycroft was craving puddings, the country must be in dire trouble, Lestrade knew.

"Gordon Brown being difficult?" he asked.

"There are some politicians it is painful to watch," Mycroft replied. "But I can't...I shouldn't talk about that. Why are you feeling so hostile towards Christmas?"

"The pickpockets are worse than ever this year. _And_ it's inspired Donovan to have another go at pairing me off," Lestrade replied. "She's convinced I'm going to be sitting miserably at home all Christmas if she doesn't find me a man." Part of proving that he wasn't pining for Mycroft had been looking round for someone else. But since he was too old for clubbing and too cynical for dating agencies, he'd somehow ended up with Donovan trying to sort out his love life.

"How bad was this one?" Mycroft enquired sympathetically. Lestrade sometimes wondered if he got a vicarious thrill out of Lestrade's personal life; he always seemed interested to hear about it. Possibly it reassured Mycroft that long-term celibacy was a more sensible option.

"Not as bad as Gold-Shirt Tony," Lestrade said. Sally was at last starting to grasp that setting him up with twenty-five-year olds was not a good move. "Early forties, librarian at UCL, intelligent bloke. Quite sweet really, till he had a bit too much to drink and started weeping about his ex-boyfriend. I'm not getting involved with anyone still hung up on somebody else." God, he was a hypocrite, wasn't he?

 "I...I shouldn't have mentioned it," he added, a little uncomfortably. "And anyhow, I have something more important to tell you about. I need to warn you about the rat."

"The rat?"

"Sherlock brought a rat to the Yard yesterday."

"Dare I ask if it was dead or alive?" Mycroft said, his eyes twinkling.

"Alive. It's huge and vicious. It's not a normal London rat – I can cope with them. This is from somewhere in the Far East: Indonesia, I think. A giant Indonesian rat, just what we needed."

"What happened?"

"You don't want to know the details, but it escaped and got into the Gents. I suspect Anderson may have a whole new set of phobias. Sally was trying to calm him down. Took him home, which is probably not going to end well."

"Customs and Excise have specialist wildlife officers," said Mycroft. "I might send them a tipoff."

"Thanks," Lestrade said. "I don't want Sherlock to turn up at your mother's for Christmas with it. Might scare her rigid."

"I hardly think–" Mycroft said, and then stopped abruptly, a look of alarm coming over his face.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked.

"Talking of rats, an old acquaintance that I'd rather had been forgot," Mycroft said, as a small grey-haired man came towards their table.

"Well look who's here," the man said sneering. "Mycroft Holmes, stuffing his face as usual." Beneath the closely-cropped hair were light grey eyes behind steel-rimmed specs in a pale, vicious face, Something eating him up inside, thought Lestrade.

"I thought you were in prison, Guy," Mycroft said in a tense voice.

"Cancer. I've got three months to live, so they've released me. I thought they'd shoved you off to Washington."

"They did. But I came back," Mycroft's voice was calmer now, a hint of his normal poise returning. "All the old gang are gone now. They wouldn't recognise you if you turned up at Vauxhall Cross. Not that I advise it, of course."

"All the old ones may be gone," Guy replied, "but not you young _thrusters_ , eh?" He turned to Lestrade. "Whatever he does for you in bed, it's not worth it. He's a bloody expensive lay, is Mycroft Holmes."

"Guy!" Mycroft snapped.

"The Service's biggest tart, everyone reckoned." Guy's voice was getting louder. "Not much to look at, but he had such winning ways. You'd beg him to let you bugger him, but it'd be you who ended up getting screwed." Everyone in the room was staring at them now, and Mycroft was just sitting there, looking stunned.

Lestrade jumped up and grabbed Guy's wrists. "I think you'd better come with me, sunshine," he said, as calmly as he could, and started to steer him away from the table. The club steward materialised at their side, and suddenly Guy subsided.

"I didn't mean anything," he whined. "Take your hands off me, I'm a sick man." He slunk out of the room.

"I'm very sorry," the steward said. "Mr Hollister is a life member, but I'm afraid he's rather forgotten his manners."

"They're not that clubbable in Pentonville, or wherever he's been," Lestrade replied. "Don't worry, no harm done." Not true, of course. He could feel the rage surge up in him again as he got back to the table and saw Mycroft still sitting there quietly, looking like he was about to be sick.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked.

"Fine," Mycroft said, with utter lack of conviction. "It's just...there must have been a serious communications breakdown. I should have been informed of Guy's release in advance."

"Is he dangerous?" He'd love an excuse to arrest the bastard.

"No. But he got a twenty-eight year sentence for spying thanks to me. It's not surprising he's...unhappy."

"Guy Hollister," Lestrade said. "It rings a very vague bell."

"Last of the old-time traitors," Mycroft said, a little more confidently. "Seventeen years working for the Russians before I brought him down."

There was more than that, Lestrade thought, there had to be. There'd been something oddly specific about Hollister's jeering; not just simple homophobia, but something more personal. And Mycroft's lack of reaction, too, suggested the man's allegations had hit hard. Was Hollister, perhaps, Mycroft's ex-lover? Impossible to ask, he decided, and firmly started discussing whether you could prosecute so-called "carol singers" under the Trade Descriptions Act if they only knew one verse of "Jingle Bells".

***

Lestrade survived Christmas and New Year unscathed and was just starting to wonder how he could avoid Donovan trying to arrange him a Valentine's Day date when he got distracted by a serial killer. Fortunately, Sherlock sorted out that one, with the help of his new friend, a pocket-sized army doctor with a taste for illegal handguns. As they stood around at the FE college afterwards, Mycroft told Lestrade he had high hopes of Dr Watson sorting out Sherlock. Lestrade though it more likely the poor sod would end up in hospital or with a criminal record within a couple of months, but there was no point in saying anything when Sherlock had a new enthusiasm.

He slept for sixteen hours solid when he finally got home and woke up feeling as if he'd been embalmed. There were fourteen messages on his answer phone, but he ignored them in favour of several pints of coffee. There was a pile of post as well – he'd hardly been in the flat for a week – and he looked grumpily through it. All bills and junk mail except for one. Bulky A5 envelope, hand-addressed to Gregory Lestrade Esq. In his experience, letter-bombers weren't so old-fashioned, so he opened it up.

 A handful of photos spilled out. One of a young-looking Mycroft with his arm around another man's shoulders. The second with Mycroft and a different man on a beach, splashing one another. On the back of each of them was a name and two dates: _Oliver Latimer, 1995-1996; Paul Mitchell, 1992_. Oh hell, he thought, with sudden suspicion, and hastily worked his way through the rest of the package. And yes, more pictures of Mycroft and then a note: _Thought you might like a copy of your boyfriend's Service record_.

Lestrade looked more carefully through the pictures the second time. Eight different men, none of whom he recognised, all older than Mycroft, making a rough sequence through Mycroft's twenties. Mycroft was kissing one man at a Christmas party, and there was another where a topless man in eyeliner was feeling Mycroft's arse. The others wouldn't have warranted a raised eyebrow in the straightest of photo albums. _Bloody hell_ , he thought, _Mycroft must have had a boring life if these are the most sordid photos a blackmailer can manage_. No-one under aged, no spangles, no drag, it made gay life look almost as tedious as straight life. Good job no-one had come across some of _his_ old photos.

His phone rang, and when he answered it Mycroft's voice said rapidly: "I've been trying to get hold of you since yesterday. Guy Hollister's dead."

"Who? Oh, your Tankerville Club rat. Good riddance!"

"He'd left instructions when he died that packages should be sent to various of my...associates."

"He's the one responsible for the photos, is he? Don't worry, I've seen a lot worse."

"You've, you've opened the package? I left messages, I thought...you've looked at the pictures?"

"Yes, but–" The line went dead. _Fuck_ , he thought, _I should have checked my answer phone after all_. Sure enough, there was a sequence of increasingly urgent messages from Mycroft asking him to destroy the parcel immediately or return it to him unopened.

 _Probably been outed to half his colleagues_ , Lestrade thought, _and forgotten I'm not going to be spooked by that kind of thing_. Still, he shredded the photos and left a cautious message with Anthea: _Package disposed of. Contact me if any further action required_. He hoped if Mycroft really was in trouble, he'd ask for help, but offering it might just add to his humiliation right now. Best to leave it to him to decide what to do. Anyhow, Lestrade had to concentrate on a more pressing problem: what the hell did he put in his final report on the serial killer cabbie so he didn't incriminate John Watson?

***

It was only when he didn't hear from Mycroft after the Tilly Briggs case a couple of weeks later that Lestrade started to worry. Both him and Sherlock ending up in the Thames and then those bloody embarrassing front-page newspaper photos of them dripping wet; he'd expected at least a call to check he hadn't gone done with some hideous disease as a result. But there was no sign of Mycroft and no response to his messages. At last he resorted to texting Sherlock:

_Is Mycroft away? Not heard from him recently. GL_

Sherlock's response was rapid: _Congratulations on getting rid of him at last. Hope you're more cheerful now that you've broken up. SH_

***

"I'm not Mycroft's boyfriend – I never have been," Lestrade said firmly when he went round to 221B that evening. John had gone off for a meal and an argument with his sister, and it felt almost like the old times visiting one of Sherlock's flats. Sitting amid piles of paper, staring at the skull and hoping the chair he was sitting in hadn't been booby-trapped.

"I had presumed...I mean he's besotted with you," Sherlock replied, leaning against the mantelpiece and looking down at him. "He's been heard to describe you as _intelligent_. Did you turn him down, then?"

"He turned me down, several years ago. We're friends, that's all." God, he must be desperate if he was discussing this with Sherlock, of all people.

"A pity. It'd be better if you were together."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed. "That sounded almost caring."

Sherlock smiled. "Purely selfish motives. When Mycroft's in a serious relationship he has less time and energy for interfering in my own life. But he's always been singularly incompetent at getting together with anyone."

"That's not what I heard," Lestrade retorted, and then realised he'd been rash.

"Tell me," Sherlock said, smiling sideways at him. "You know you want to."

"You're too bloody nosy for your own good," Lestrade said with resignation. "An old enemy of Mycroft's died and left a nasty legacy. A bunch of photos of Mycroft's exes sent to his colleagues, including myself. And Mycroft has freaked out about that."

"Ah, so you were targeted by Guy Hollister as well."

"Did he send a copy to you?"

"No, but I had to run a very special errand for Mycroft at the start of the month, retrieve a package that had been sent to our mother before she could open it."

"Does your mother know that you're out?" – _shit! – "_ Does your mother know about you?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "but she's happier with the theoretical idea of her sons being gay than the specific details of whom exactly they're sleeping with. Fortunately, I got to Hollister's little gift before she did." He went over to a pile of papers and swiftly pulled out a familiar looking envelope.

"Mycroft told you to destroy it, didn't he?" Lestrade said.

"I never destroy evidence," Sherlock said, "but I did refrain from opening this. It sounds as if that was an error. Come over here, the light's better." Lestrade followed him to the table by the window as Sherlock donned gloves and reached for a letter-opener.

"We know who sent it," Lestrade protested. "The handwriting's the same as on mine, and there was no obvious attempt to disguise it. So no useful fingerprint evidence."

"Hollister could have had an accomplice."

"It's not technically blackmail, so no crime committed. And he's dead anyhow."

"All right," Sherlock said, as he opened the envelope. "Photos in here as expected. Check them through, see if there are any differences from the pack you received."

"Same pictures," Lestrade said, after a few minutes frowning concentration. "And the only difference in my note was that it said 'boyfriend' rather than 'mother'."

"Are you sure about the photos? You destroyed your copies, presumably."

"Eight photos in mine and some of them at least I remember quite clearly. And all with names and dates on the back."

"That's important. Hollister's intended to send a specific message, not just a general one about Mycroft sleeping around."

"You call that sleeping around?" Lestrade demanded. "Eight blokes in what, seven, eight years? For a gay man in his twenties?" He saw Sherlock look at him with sudden interest. "No," he added, "I'm not telling you my score, but it was lot higher, believe me.”

"Those may not be all of Mycroft's partners from the period," Sherlock said. "The point is that they're the colleagues with whom he slept."

"The colleagues?"

"Hence Hollister's note referring to Mycroft's service record."

"Oh God, of course. That's pretty daft of Mycroft – that sort of thing never ends well. I mean, Donovan and Anderson is just a disaster waiting to happen." That was possibly telling tales out of school, but from Sherlock's smirk, he'd known already. "So that's why the names are on the photos. And that's the motive. I wondered when I met Hollister whether he might be an ex of Mycroft."

"You met him?" Sherlock demanded, throwing up his hands. "Did it not occur to your tiny little mind to mention this before? Where? When? Why?"

"Tankerville Club, just before Christmas, I was having a meal there with Mycroft," Lestrade reeled off. "It's probably why Hollister mistook me for his boyfriend."

"What did he say?"

"Called Mycroft an expensive tart," Lestrade replied.

"I need his exact words."

"It was several months ago."

"You remember your meetings with Mycroft, don't you? You remember every word he says, every look. You go home and analyse them afterwards, in case you find evidence that he does want you after all."

"Oh sod it, I'm that bloody obvious, am I?"

"The way you look at him when he arrives at a crime scene. The way you subsequently don't look at him, even while staying conscious of his every gesture. Mycroft's just as bad. But I always simply presumed you were both trying to keep your relationship secret and failing completely."

"Why didn't Mycroft say anything, then?"

"Why does Mycroft do anything? Tell me about Hollister."

Lestrade repeated the conversation as best he could.

"Dates," Sherlock said. "Mycroft joined the Service directly after university, so that'd be 1989. When did Hollister get convicted?" He dug out a phone from his pocket and started to tap away. "Put the photos in sequence," he ordered, "then tell me the date range and any overlap."

"First is from 1991, last from 1998. A couple of possible overlaps, since he's only given the year, not the exact date."

"Hollister was arrested in 2000," Sherlock said, "so years missing from either end. And one other missing element, of course."

"What?"

"You were wrong about Hollister being Mycroft's ex. There are no photos of him and Mycroft; if they'd been together, there would be something."

"Maybe Hollister wasn't gay?"

"No. The men concerned knew the photos were being taken, even the incriminating ones, and they were taken by Hollister – the reprints are from negatives, not prints. So they must have had a hold on Hollister, mutually assured destruction. Mycroft slept with some of his colleagues, but not him, that's why Hollister was so bitter towards him."

"Makes sense."

"But it's the dates that bother me," Sherlock said. He sat down at the table, picking up the photos, putting them down again, shuffling them around, even turning one upside down. "Too short to be a code, surely? Let me check the names, just in case any of the others were traitors." He tapped on his phone, dropping the photos one by one. Lestrade carried on staring at them. No obvious type Mycroft went for, except older men. He didn't think that was his appeal to Mycroft, but maybe when he'd been younger, less confident perhaps...There was something uneasy about Mycroft in some of the photos, as if he was trying to convince himself he was happy and not entirely succeeding. Or maybe that was just Lestrade's imagination.

"How old was Mycroft when he came out?" he asked.

"Twenty or so," Sherlock replied, without looking up from his phone. "He was fat and spotty and miserable as a teenager, I don't think he got anywhere with girls _or_ boys."

 _And now he's thin and spotless and still miserable_ , thought Lestrade. There were always some gay men who found it hard to get their lives together.

"Seven out of eight of the men didn't make a splash," Sherlock announced eventually. "Which you'd rather expect with the Secret Service."

"And the eighth?"

"The last one, from 1998, Freddie Clinton. Became deputy head of MI6 a year later, so he must already have been very senior when Mycroft was involved with him. And there's one other relevant piece of information. Mycroft made himself extremely unpopular when he first joined the Service."

"How?"

"Too clever for his own good. One of his early reports said that Soviet control of Eastern Europe couldn't survive more than a couple of years. Everyone else was planning for the next century of the Cold War. Five months later the Berlin Wall came down."

"Nobody likes a smart-arse. So?"

"So the photos show us that he changed tactics. Found another way to get ahead, via the beds of his superiors."

"He wouldn't," Lestrade replied automatically.

"Wouldn't or couldn't?" Sherlock said, smiling at him across the table. "How long after you first met him before you wanted to have sex with him?"

No point in lying to the bastard. "Half an hour," he replied, folding his arms.

"He's irresistible to some men," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. "I've never understood why."

"Coiled spring," Lestrade said. "All that intelligence...power, under very tight control. You want to release him, unbutton him." _Make his scream, make him beg_. Sherlock, he noted sardonically, had almost unconsciously started to bat his eyelashes at him, as if he couldn't bear anyone finding Mycroft more attractive than him. _The thing is_ , Lestrade carefully didn't say, _you may be gorgeous, but you'd obviously be bossy as hell in bed, and I can't be doing with that._

"For whatever reason," Sherlock said, after a few moments, "Mycroft has his admirers and I think we can safely assume he used them to boost his career. He didn't stop till he'd slept with the deputy head of MI6. An expensive tart, as Hollister correctly stated."

Mycroft wouldn't be the first to do that sort of thing, Lestrade thought. If he'd been ambitious and his path had been blocked, it might have seemed the only way.

"At school, he helped other boys with their maths homework for years," Sherlock went on. "He desperately wants people to find him useful, to value him. I suspect he did the same thing when they packed him off to America. Ingratiated himself via a special relationship or two."

"And since he's been back?" Lestrade asked. "Has there been anyone?"

"Not that I know of. Not that you know of. He's clever, but he's not completely unreadable. Mycroft doesn't need to sleep with anyone now to secure his career."

"But these pictures could still get him into trouble? Have got him into trouble?"

"Of course not. Try and use your brain, however inadequate it is. These are old photos; if there was anything seriously damaging in them, Hollister would have used them long before as his get out of jail free card. Quite literally. No, this is an afterthought, a last bit of malice by a dying man. Just gossip and old gossip at that. No harm done, except to Mycroft's ego and that always needs deflating."

Lestrade glared at him and wondered if it was worth trying to explain how much something like this could hurt. Probably a waste of breath, he concluded.

"Meanwhile, now we've established the facts, the solution to the remaining problem is straightforward," Sherlock went on, smirking.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. "You and Mycroft satisfying your desperate urge to uncoil one another's springs. You want him, he wants you, so sort it out between you! Then maybe next time I get a case I can deal with it without interference from either of you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade doesn't care about Mycroft's dubious past, so it's time to demonstrate that

OK for Sherlock to say 'sort it out', Lestrade thought grumpily on his way home. He'd never bothered with delicate dances round people's feelings. But if Mycroft had said nothing, even though he was attracted to Lestrade, gone into a panic at the thought of him knowing about his past, it suggested a hell of a lot of insecurity. Sold himself too cheap and now didn't think he was worth anything. Lestrade had seen a lot of his own friends over the years trade sex for favours and it had driven some of them nuts. The ones who could never shake the voices in their heads afterwards, saying 'You're not worth loving, you don't deserve anyone decent'.

If he could just talk to Mycroft, maybe he could get it into his thick skull that Mycroft's past didn't matter to him. He didn't care if he'd shagged the whole of the Secret Service when he was younger. Hell, he didn't care if he'd shagged Vladimir Putin _and_ George Bush. But that wasn't exactly a message you could leave on an answer phone or send in an e-mail. He didn't even have Mycroft's snail mail address to send some dodgy photos to him. A shame, because if anyone needed a photo of a nineteen-year-old Lestrade in leather shorts and not a lot else, it was Mycroft. If it didn't fuse his brain, it'd cheer him up at least. Prove to him that he wasn't the only one with poor judgement, that Lestrade had had his share of embarrassing relationships as well...

The problem was, though, that trying to get Mycroft to talk about it wasn't going to help. He'd probably just freeze up, retreat into himself again, the way he always did. It had to be Mycroft making a move on _him_ , but if Lestrade waited for that, they could be sitting around till Doomsday. It'd take something drastic to shake them out of this mess.

And then it dawned on him. Maybe it was time that Mycroft found out about one of his old boyfriends, at least. _He thinks he's not good enough for me, does he, silly sod? Let's see if he still thinks that when he sees me with someone else._

***

"If I got myself a pretend boyfriend," he asked Sherlock the next day, "could you let Mycroft know about it?"

"Hardly be necessary." Sherlock's voice on the phone was sardonic. "He's probably got you under twenty-four hour surveillance already."

"But you could do it?"

"Yes. But Mycroft's an intelligent man. He's not going to be fooled by any of Donovan's inadequate acquaintances."

"I've got someone else in mind. Intelligent, charismatic, someone I might plausibly get obsessed with."

"I'd prefer not to end up in Guantanamo Bay," Sherlock remarked.

"Not you, you pillock! God, your ego is enormous. An ex-boyfriend of mine, called Stuart Jackson. We had a long relationship when I was in uniformed branch."

"A plausible rival?"

"You know I claim to have been educated in the University of Life?"

"Yes."

"More like the University of Stuart's Bed. He got me through my detective exams, for a start. And taught me a lot of other things as well. Pygmalion to my Galatea, and yes, that is one of his references."

"Stuart Jackson," Sherlock said. "He's a barrister, isn't he?"

"Was. He's retired now. Did you run across him?"

"Defending a client called Madeleine Hamilton in the Isle of Man. The most attractive woman I ever knew, but she poisoned three little children for their insurance money. I was a prosecution witness and Mr Jackson didn't lay a glove on me in the cross-examination." Lestrade could hear the edge in Sherlock's voice, imagine the flash in those eloquent eyes.

"Stuart always reckoned," Lestrade said, "that tough cross-examinations were just willy-waving, turned jurors off. But tell them a story they could identify with, and you could do anything."

"In his closing statement he unleashed a sob story about Mrs Hamilton that got her off with a manslaughter charge. Six years that murderess got. He's a dangerous man, Mr Jackson."

"That's what I want," Lestrade said. "It's time Mycroft decided if he's prepared to put up a fight."

***

Of course, Lestrade thought, it all depended on Stuart being prepared to co-operate. But the moment he got off the train at Ludlow to be greeted by Stuart's enthusiastic embrace, he knew it was doable. Stuart was heavier and quite bald now – he'd always said the barrister's wig was terrible for the scalp – but he had the same smooth charm as ever.

"Glad to help an old friend out," he announced that evening. "As long as the would-be boyfriend doesn't try and assassinate me."

"Will Paul be OK about it?" Lestrade asked. Paul was the latest of Stuart's protégés, a sulky-looking thirty-year old who was allegedly a promising painter.

"Paul needs to suffer for his art," Stuart said firmly. "We've been together nearly three years. He's getting a bit complacent, a bit domesticated."

Stuart up to his old tricks again, Lestrade thought. He hoped this wasn't going to get completely out of hand.

"I need to come to London," Stuart added. "I can't see your spy wanting to hang around Shropshire carrying out surveillance. Is he more James Bond or George Smiley, by the way?"

"I suspect he modelled himself on John Steed," Lestrade said. "But he probably slept with Smiley. You can only come to London if you promise to behave. No clubbing."

"You've got so boring in your old age, Greg," Stuart replied, smiling. "But don't worry, darling. I'm going to spend all my evenings tucked up in bed with you."

***

It was years since Lestrade had had his arse felt so many times as in the next week, but after a brief argument on the first night, Stuart hadn't tried to get in Lestrade's bed. In public though, Stuart let rip, with the slightly over-intimate patronage of a man who'd decided to take Lestrade in hand, _improve_ him. Certainly, he seemed to drag him along to every art gallery and fancy shop in London. It was quite a relief to pack Stuart back off to Shropshire on Saturday evening, along with half a dozen smart new shirts and a small but hideous piece of contemporary sculpture.

The whole thing hadn't done any good, Lestrade thought on his way home, except remind him that he preferred posh blokes who were more tactful about his own ignorance. He wearily opened the door of his flat and then saw the umbrella tucked carefully into a corner. And, sitting awkwardly at the small dining room table, Mycroft.

"I'd have left you a key if I'd known you were coming," Lestrade said, going up to him, hands balled in pockets, trying to keep calm. _No, fuck it_ , he suddenly thought, _why should I be?_ He glared down at Mycroft. "Well?"

"Where's Stuart Jackson?" Mycroft demanded in a tight voice. There were shadows under his eyes, and he looked like he'd lost weight, his face almost gaunt.

"I'm sure you know already," Lestrade replied. "Gone back home to Paul."

"You _know_ he's not going to leave him for you," Mycroft said, standing up.

"Perhaps not," Lestrade replied. "But I get something from Stuart, at least. Maybe you're happy with being on your own. I'm sick of it."

Mycroft's eyes gazed down into his, dark with fear – or lust? "I will give you anything you want, Greg," he said. " _Anything_." And then his hands reached out to Lestrade's shoulders and his mouth fastened onto his. Soft lips and delicately moving tongue and a hint of teeth, and Mycroft's hands sliding down behind Lestrade, making circles in the small of his back. He kissed back as hard as he could, arms wrapping around Mycroft's lean body, pressing against him, fondling his bum. God, this was good. And – _fuck it_ – Mycroft's hands were sliding round his waist, skilful fingers unzipping him, and – _Christ_ – Mycroft had slipped from his grasp, dropping to his knees, pulling Lestrade's jeans down and then carefully unwrapping Lestrade's rapidly stiffening cock from his Y-fronts.

I should do something, Lestrade thought vaguely, and then Mycroft's mouth swallowed his erection and his last coherent thought was: _No wonder he got all those promotions_.  Warmth and pressure and then Mycroft's head coming back till his tongue was just teasing at the slit of Lestrade’s cock, before taking it in again and...and if the bastard stopped now, Lestrade would kill him. Nothing to do but feel the tension surge and try and stay upright as his whole body fused into one simple need.

"Mycroft!" he yelled, and Mycroft just kept sucking, as Lestrade's cock pulsed uncontrollably. He stood there dizzily, afterwards; he hadn't come that hard or fast in years and he wasn't sure his legs could take any sudden movements.

Mycroft was standing up now, automatically brushing down his trousers, and then straightening up to look at Lestrade, blank-eyed and confused. Better say something, Lestrade thought.

"It's you I want, not Stuart," he said – croaked, more like. "Always has been."

Mycroft just kept staring at him. He looked like a man running on pure nervous energy and just about ready to fall apart. Time to take charge, Lestrade decided; maybe Mycroft was right, and this was one of those situations where a blowjob was worth a thousand words.

"This way," he said. "We're going to take the next bit more slowly, and I'm not sure my knees can cope unless you come and lie down." Trousers still at half-mast, he led Mycroft into his untidy bedroom, and rapidly stripped. Mycroft was now sitting on the edge of the bed, apparently baffled by the prospect of removing his shoes and socks.

"Hold still," Lestrade said, and bent down to take them off, revealing long, soft, delicate feet. Lestrade stood up again, pulled off Mycroft's suit jacket, carefully removed his blue silk tie, unbuttoned his shirt and then waited. He needed to make sure Mycroft wanted this, but if he asked him, Mycroft might yet talk himself out of the mood. So instead, Lestrade just stood quietly in front of him. Mycroft's torso was thin and sparsely-haired and vulnerably pale, and as he finally stood up, pulled off his shirt and then carefully removed his trousers and pants, Lestrade just wanted to hold him close till the wariness faded from his eyes.

Once he was naked, Mycroft lay down on his side, hips automatically tilting to allow easy access to his arse, fondling his own cock, as he gazed up uncertainly at Lestrade. Experienced in bed, of course, but probably not used to enjoying himself, saying what _he_ wanted. Ah well, Lestrade thought, as he lay down and smiled reassuringly at Mycroft, good job he knew something about making deductions. Start by exploring every square inch of the other man's skin and seeing what he liked. Call it a fingertip search. Or even a tongue tip one.

He managed to kiss and lick most of Mycroft's torso before Mycroft turned on his back, muttered "Greg" rather desperately, and pulled him down towards his groin. Lestrade's lips went round Mycroft's cock and there was absolutely no need for fancy technique, because Mycroft was fucking his mouth desperately. Lestrade let himself relax, swallow as much of the erection as he could and concentrate on the very unMycroft-like groans coming from his lover.

Mycroft moaned something that might have been "Greg" or some obscure Russian swearword and came, spasming in Lestrade's mouth. Then he lay still, his eyes not just closed, but tight shut, as if he didn't want to wake up and face the world. And when Lestrade shifted up the bed and put his arm round Mycroft, he could feel tiny tremors run through his body.

_The panic starts here_ , Lestrade thought, so he snuggled up to kiss Mycroft's neck and let his arm rest a little more heavily across Mycroft's chest. Reassure him he wasn't running away. He could sense Mycroft's body starting to unwind, muscles untensing into post-orgasmic heaviness. Which was good, but maybe he didn't want him _too_ relaxed...

"First one to recover gets to top," he murmured into Mycroft's ear. He could _feel_ Mycroft thinking about that, further appealing possibilities starting to light up in his mind.

"You want me to stay?" Mycroft asked tentatively.

"Yeah."

"How long for?"

"A decade or so. Not worth tidying up the bedroom for a short visit."

There was almost a smile on Mycroft's face now, even if his eyes were still closed. Tomorrow morning, of course, there'd be earnest worried statements from him, as he'd overanalyse events in the way only a brilliant, neurotic man could. But tomorrow morning, Lestrade thought muzzily, was still at least one, if not two shags away, and a night of uninhibited lust was pretty substantial evidence for Mycroft that Lestrade really did fancy him rotten. His free hand started to tease the sensitive spot at the base of Mycroft's neck.

"You need to stop running, Mycroft," he told him firmly. "Time to come in from the cold."


End file.
